Houseguest of Deceit
by Shadow Stylus
Summary: Because sometimes what you want most is everything you can’t have. {Movieverse, one-sided HarryPeter implications}


Houseguest of Deceit

Summary: Because sometimes what you want most is everything you can't have. {Movieverse, one-sided HarryPeter implications}

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You'd fooled around with another boy once—once, when you were sixteen and feeling adventurous. He was rich, feminine and very, very flaming. He spoke two words of English, in public. 'Please' and 'No'. Your father, entertaining the Austrian businessman, had lumped you and he together and told you to fend for yourselves. You supposed this was his way of getting you ready to deal with insufferable, boring sticks later in your life.

You'd barely gotten out of his sight before this pretty blonde boy had his hands all over you. You didn't know where he'd learned, but he started speaking the dirtiest words you'd ever heard, and hell, you went to a high school in America. He'd dragged you into a bathroom, as god knew your house had enough of them, and he'd stripped you down and given you a better blowjob than your last gold-digging girlfriend, (Or maybe your last three…) and you'd let him, leaning against the counter, hands gripping the tiles so tightly it almost hurt. And then that pretty blonde boy winked up at you and asked where you kept the lube.

It took you a moment to wonder what the hell he was talking about. Yeah, you'd fucked girls before. Some girls were just asking for it, and well, you liked to think of yourself as a gentleman, and gentlemen just didn't say no to ladies. He seemed to understand your dilemma, because he muttered something under his breath that was distinctly Austrian and also quite distinctively an insult. You could always tell what was an insult and what wasn't, by tone alone.

So this boy—(though you'd found out he was actually three years older than you. Funny, he looked about thirteen) bent you over the waist-high bathtub and man, you learned what it was like to be fucked by a guy.

It was more fun than it looked. No. Really.

The pretty Austrian boy spent three more days there, and he dragged you all over the mansion, finding new places and new positions to try out. You were happy to go with the flow. After all, who knew when you might need to do a little 'business persuasion' later in life? You figured it was good training and hey, your father had always wanted you trained. He never specified how or by whom.

You'd always wondered, after that. The question didn't haunt you, it just made you curious. 'Am I gay?' you'd ask to the ceiling at night as you jacked off and thought about pretty girls, or pretty guys, or both at the same time. Sometimes you were a royal jackass to the few kids at your school bold enough to out themselves, and you'd sneer or you'd laugh or you'd ignore them like they were lower life forms, and not just because you were rich and they were dirt poor. And then this one gothic kid who was never short on makeup or cherry bubblegum approached you once with frightening audacity and asked if YOU were gay.

Of course, you told him no, and he smirked a knowing little smirk and popped that cherry bubblegum right in your face and licked his lips afterwards, in a manner that was downright unsettling.

"Sure y'ain't," he drawled, a thick Brooklyn accent on his voice. "Just keep telling yourself that, rich boy."

Now _that_ was quite enough. You dragged the goth into a closet not at all reminiscent of the scented bathrooms of home and he just kept smirking, like he'd planned this all along, and you fucked him just to prove you could and afterwards, as he did his pants up and lit a cigarette, he grinned at you and blew smoke in your face.

"Not gay, huh?"

You were baffled by this comment, too baffled to get angry like you wanted to. "No," you'd said, shrugging. "I just like to know what I'm doing so I'm always in control."

"Oooh. Touché, little rich boy. Touché." And he handed the cigarette over. "I'm Josh. And I still say you're queerer than a three dollar bill."

You eyed the cig a moment, disgusted with its quality, but took a drag anyways.

"This," you'd said pointedly. "Never happened." You rallied several hefty threats in your mind. Like, 'Does your daddy have a job? Well, he won't anymore…' or 'I'm twice your size. Do you REALLY want me to kick your ass?' but before you could breathe life into them, he spoke again.

"Mmhmm. What didn't?" He reclaimed the cancer-stick and dropped it into a janitorial bucket of murky water. "I'll see you around, rich boy. Only, y'know. Not." And then he opened the closet door and walked out.

He was right, you realized, months later. You didn't see him again. Or sometimes maybe you thought you did, but really it was just an illusion, your mind playing tricks on you. You'd half expected him to tell the entire school about your escapades but instead, there was nothing.

You wondered if that was weird. But maybe he'd done something, because you DID start noticing the boys more. Like, maybe that guy Mathew had a really nice ass, or that guy Conner had the most kissable lips this side of the West End.

But you weren't ready for a public scandal, and at seventeen, you were pretty damn sure you had the press following you everywhere these days anyways. So you went back to recycling girlfriends—a Tiffany here, a Julia there, and the only thing that stayed constant in your life was your best friend, Peter.

You'd wondered when you were younger if the little shit was gonna end up gay, because he just had that 'aura'. Surely, you thought to yourself—surely if YOU liked fooling around with boys, (but more with girls. No. Really.) little Peter Parker couldn't stay straight for long. You were almost looking forwards to showing him the ropes, because maybe it'd be like repaying him for the science classes that you would have failed without him. You hated being in debt to him, because he had nothing and you had everything and sometimes the feeling that his 'nothing' meant more than your 'everything' got to you. Just a little.

But nope.

He fostered that damned crush for his neighbor, Mary Jane, and that was that. You didn't think he had eyes for anyone else.

Well damn. Well, there was no harm in tempting him. And you did it, sometimes, just to see how he'd react. Sometimes you'd wander out of your private bathroom on the few nights he'd spend the night (mostly to help with homework. Mostly) and you'd rub a hand up under your shirt and make a sound that was kind of a yawn but maybe more of a groan, and you'd get to watch his eyes flick distractedly from his notebooks to you and then back again.

So he wasn't made of stone.

He tried to make small talk sometimes. But little Peter Parker was bad at small talk. Too much of a blasted geek.

"How's your girlfriend?" he said awkwardly, tapping his pencil against the frame of his glasses.

"Rah," you said by way of an answer, and you peeled the shirt off over your head and flexed those muscles you know you have and smirked just a little. "Which one?" It was almost a joke. Almost. "I'm with Anita right now. She's…eh. Okay." You waved a hand through the air, miming her curves. "Not quite my style, though. Or my speed." Or my gender, you almost added, but that might have given poor Peter a heart attack and damnit, you just weren't that mean. Slowly, you dropped to the edge of the bed, and Peter moved over just a little. Not that your bed was particularly small or anything.

He mulled over this a moment and then went back to rambling about some sort of scientific…something. Honestly, you had no idea what he was babbling about, only that he was doing it very fast and somewhat incoherently. You really just wanted to shut yourself up, but you tried to listen anyways. There was a test on Monday, and you hadn't studied yet, and this was the only tutelage you were gonna get.

…But mostly, you just wanted to shut him up. You could have cared less about science.

"Hey, Peter. About that Mary Jane, eh?"

He stopped, mid-litany, and looked at you. A scarlet blush tinged his cheeks and he fumbled to adjust his glasses. "What about her, Harry?" he asked, carefully inquisitive.

"She's pretty hot, isn't she?"

The blush intensified and he dipped his head, ruffling one hand at his hair half-heartedly. "Um…yeah."

"Oh come off it, Peter," you said, and saying you were amused would have been like saying the Titanic was a rowboat. "I know you like her, man! How long, now?"

"No I don't!" it was automatic, succulent denial. You smiled, the trap neatly about him now. You wondered if Peter knew he was caught in a spider's web, and that you were the master of it all.

"Then you wouldn't mind if I tried for her, eh?" Hook, line, sinker…

The look of utterly horrified pain that flitted across his face almost made you wish you could take the words back, but what's done is done. He forced a nod. "N—no…no, of course not."

"Bah. Enough of this shit for tonight, man," you reached over and 'ttp'ed the book closed with one finger. "I know where my father keeps the good bourbon."

"Har—" he tried to protest, but you shook your head.

"We can study tomorrow," you were already back on your feet, smiling a little lopsidedly, stretching your arms above your head. You wondered if the blush was left-over from your questioning about Mary Jane, or the fact that you're really quite appealing to either sex—regardless of orientation. You wanted to flatter yourself by thinking it the latter. "Providing we don't have hangovers."

Peter had always been in your shadow, you realized right then. He had to work for his grades, your teachers were afraid to give you bad ones. Girls fell into your lap quite literally and wiggled around for emphasis, and he had a hard enough time talking to the fifty year old librarian without stuttering. You were the privileged one, and you always had been. He did what you did and tried to like what you liked simply because he was afraid to branch out and be his own person. You wondered if he was just a late bloomer.

For some reason, this was oddly satisfying a thought.

"Be right back," you said with a smile and a wink, and you trotted off out the door and down the hall. Your father kept his liquor cabinet locked—more to dissuade sticky-fingered employees than yourself, but you were also pretty sure you knew where he kept the keys.

The antique clock in the foyer below you chimed two in the morning, and you had time to stop and wonder where the day had gone. You and Peter came home from school, you milled about, you ordered pizza…

Hm, you thought to yourself, shaking your head as you found your father's keys in his office desk drawer. They were hiding beneath stacks of paperwork, but you knew where to look. After all, you'd nursed a bottle of his best scotch just a year ago, with a pretty Austrian boy encouraging you all the while with a blowjob fairly smacking of talent. Literally and figuratively, if memory serves.

When you returned to the room with two glasses and a neat little bottle, Peter was pacing near the window, with that 'I'm about to do something bad' aura dripping off him like water off a dog. You wondered for a moment if he had worked up the willpower to turn you down, but…naw. Probably not.

"To friends," you said, raising an eyebrow at his nervousness. He jerked as though you'd stabbed him and then offered a quick, tight smile.

"I've—" his voice squeaked and he stopped, embarrassed. "I've never had anything quite so…um. Strong. Before. Aunt May has wine sometimes…she says it's to calm her nerves, but I've never…"

"So we'll start small," you said, and smiled. You poured a finger's width of bourbon into the glass and swilled it appetizingly in Peter's direction. He frowned, and then took it from you. The first sip he took left him coughing, and the contents of the glass sloshed all over the luxurious carpet. You noted that he managed to hang on to the infinitely less valuable glass, and you couldn't help but laugh at the irony.

"Slow down, cowboy," you said, relieving him of his glass and taking the time to refill it. The smell of spiced alcohol wafted from the floor, and you sighed, setting the glasses and the bottle on the small table by your bed. "Don't choke," you warned him, and then you sauntered off to your private bathroom to get something to clean the mess. Your father doesn't come into your bedroom often, but if he did, you don't think he'd exactly appreciate the irony the way you had.

When you returned, Peter was sitting back on your bed, meekly sipping from the glass. His cheeks were flushed—but you were pretty sure the alcohol couldn't have worked that quickly, so you figured it was probably from the embarrassment of making the billionaire's son work in his own home.

"Sorry," he mumbled ineffectually as he stood up. "Here, here, no, Harry, let me—" you waved him off with the towel you'd scrounged.

"Sit down, shut up and drink," you said, jokingly, but he took it as more of a command than you'd delivered it as. You chuckled to lessen the brevity of your words and he looked…uncertain? Since when! Best friends for how long, Peter, you asked him wryly, in your mind. You finished mopping up the mess and splashed a thoughtfully grabbed glass of water on it. You'd no idea if it'll work or not—hell, you hadn't cleaned anything worth anything since about the sixth grade, when you'd gotten a detention and had ended up staying after class to clean blackboards.

If you remembered correctly, your teacher had been so disgusted with the quality of your work that the next time she just gave you lines. That whole event had left you both satisfied and hurt; because you remembered thinking that maybe you just weren't good enough. And then some other, more rational part of your mind had scoffed about how you'd never have to do menial labor, anyways, so what could it possibly count for?

Still. There was something about the way you'd felt so useless for never being able to do anything for yourself. Maybe that was why—maybe that was why…

Your gaze shifted to Peter. As though he was feeling particularly scrutinized, he drained the rest of his glass.

"Good?" you asked, and maybe your voice was just a little rougher than normal. You weren't feeling malicious or vindictive, just envious. And you thought maybe it was wrong, because you have _everything _and Peter doesn't even have parents, but…

He nodded and offered a little grin. "Yeah,"

"Better than wine?"

"Mmhmm."

"Good," you repeated again, without the inquisitive lilt of a question. "Good."

And then you crawled into the bottle as well. By the time it was nearly a quarter of the way down, Peter was shifting and antsy and it seemed to you maybe he was just a little—maybe more than a little—drunk.

"I like Mary Jane, you know," he babbled, catching onto your arm as you went for a refill. You were pleased to see that you have a notably higher tolerance than him. One more thing that you have that he doesn't. _Ouch…_ "I do. I really do. I wanna marry her. On a hilltop, with the wind all blowing around her, 'cause she's beautiful when the wind blows." He smiled broadly and gestured for another drink. Fascinated with his lapse in control, you acquiesced. Downstairs, the clock chimed four.

"She's beautiful whenever, really," he said thoughtfully, taking another small sip. "In the rain, in the sun…" Peter trailed off wistfully, perhaps envisioning that beauty in his mind.

"Please…please don't take her away from me," he pleaded suddenly, startling you. "You could have any girl—any girl you wanted, Harry, and I wouldn't have a chance if you went after her. Please, please, just…I like her, Harry, I really do. But you're my best friend, and I guess if you could make her happy I wouldn't stand in your way, but Harry, please, Harry, I really, really like her, and I wouldn't have a chance if you went after her…" he paused, a look of confusion in his eyes.

"Um." And he blushed. "Did I say too much? It's this bloody stuff…" he swilled the contents of the glass around in an uneven little circle. "I sound so stupid…"

You watched him, head tilted to one side. He'd just handed you years worth of blackmail material, so one little slip of your own wouldn't hurt. Maybe it bothered you that you were thinking of him—thinking of your _best friend_ like this, but you'd been raised to it. Old habits die hard, especially when cushioned by generations of wealth and a healthy portion of liquor.

"I think I might be gay, you know," you said, carefully, watching for his reaction. He blinked, and that was all.

"I'm happy, too. I think it's this…bloody stuff." That seemed to be his excuse of the evening.

You shook your head and didn't bother correcting him. Maybe it's better if he has no idea what you're talking about. Maybe it was a stupid thing to say. It's not like it's true. You'd maybe slept with two guys, and how many girls, again…?

But he caught on, anyways. Maybe the alcohol had just dulled his reaction time. His eyes widened and he scooted further away from you on the bed.

"Y'mean…_gay-_gay? Like…"

You sighed. Somewhat dryly. "Yes, Peter."

You weren't sure if he looked fascinated or repulsed. Or maybe some absurd combination of both. "But, all those girlfriends…"

"Boring," you said with no small amount of haughtiness. "Dull. They talk about a total of three things. Other girls, other guys, and their clothing. I can't talk to them. And contrary to popular belief, I _do _like to talk. And be heard. Not brushed off." It was true, you realized. You hadn't admitted that was why, before. Maybe it stemmed from your relationship with your father—maybe you hated the fact that he listened but never heard. The fact that he smiled and nodded and the fact that recently, he'd been _listening _to Peter.

"Like…" and maybe you knew you were just digging yourself a hole, but that only made you talk faster. You reminded yourself dully that you should stick to Scotch. "Like, you. Now, don't look at me like that, you little twerp. I don't mean it like that. But I can talk to you. Sometimes. You don't understand me, Peter, but you try, and that means a lot in this fucked up world where no one ever means what they say and what they do is only to benefit themselves. I like that. I like _you," _you emphasized this with a prod to his narrow chest and he squeaked like a dog's chew toy.

You decided to drop the topic completely.

"Never mind. We'll always be friends, Peter." And you chinked your glasses together lightly, grinning. He looked…wary. Not afraid or even nervous, but wary. You knew that he though that you would never do anything to hurt him, with words or actions. You'd just been friends too damned long. You didn't think you could, either. You envied him and maybe you loved him (like a brother, you told yourself sternly), and maybe you hated him sometimes, too, because he had everything that you couldn't seem to keep.

"Always," he repeated with the solemnity that only drunks can manage. And then he drained the rest of his glass. There was silence between you for a long time, and you looked around for other things to inspect or admire, because you didn't want to look at Peter. And then—only when he'd fallen asleep, did you turn your attention back to him.

It's an odd thing, watching someone sleep. It makes you feel protective of them, because they look so utterly helpless. Peter had forgotten to take his glasses off (was too drunk to remember…?), so you did it for him, carefully, as you didn't want to wake him. Mind, the dead probably couldn't have woken him right then.

And so you laid there beside him on the bed, propped up on your side, supporting your head at a bit of an awkward angle, and you nursed the rest of your glass and you just watched him sleep. He looked impossibly young to begin with, but it was intensified, now. And you smiled.

"I'll look after you, kid," you said, experimentally. You hated him, sometimes, but you loved him, too. Like brothers. And he was so small and pathetic that you couldn't help but want to look after him, just like you'd always looked after him.

"I'll look after you." You sounded firmer, that time. More sure of yourself. Maybe it was the boldness of liquor talking, but you felt so fiercely protective of him right then that nothing, not even…not even your father. Not even he could have made you change your mind.

You wondered if this was love. And then you wondered if your thinking it's love was the doing of the liquor. That's ridiculous. He's your best friend. Your _brother._And to top it all off…he's…Peter Parker. Imperfect, runty little Peter Parker. He's not fetching, not beautiful, not particularly talented at anything save science. He's a dork and you loved to hate him, but sometimes…

You leaned over him, experimental again, and brushed your lips past his forehead. His skin was warm and flushed. And then he jerked awake and you pulled back, thinking maybe you did something to wake him up. But nope. He staggered out of bed and sprinted about as fast as he could to the bathroom, one hand clamped over his mouth.

So mostly you just figured it was just the liquor catching up with him.

And so you smiled, and set your glass on the table beside your bed, next to the half-empty bottle of bourbon, and went to see if he needed your help.


End file.
